Speed Dating
by Ginger Glinda the Tangerine
Summary: Co-written with HAlf - BlOOd PRiiNCESS. Mark enters the unusual and possibly fatal world of speed dating... Rated for slight language. No longer updating.
1. Mark Goes Speed Dating

_A/N: Hi! awkward pause Well, this is Ginger Glinda here... this first chapter was mainly written by me with inspired suggestions from the lovely HAlf - BlOOd PRiiNCESS. Go read her stuff, it rocks. 'Kay? Anyway, hope you enjoy, and don't forget to review! We love those things..._

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"Maureen! This is a bad idea…"

"Oh, come on, Pookie- I mean, Mark… It'll be fun!"

"Speed dating has never been, nor will it ever be, anything like anything that bears even a slight resemblance to fun."

Maureen stopped tugging on Mark's arm long enough to stare at him.

"Okay. I have no idea what you just said, but it will be good for you! I swear, Marky, me and Joanne met speed dating."

Mark picked at a piece of fluff on his scarf, managing to look nervous and incredulous at the same time. "You did not. You met at the Cat Scratch when you were both drunk."

"Oh, fine, start splitting hairs," Maureen huffed, rolling her eyes and flipping her Pantene-worthy hair over one shoulder. Mark's sudden look of longing was not lost to her. "But I think it'd be good for you."

"Good in the sense of, oh, say, getting my throat slit?"

"No!" The diva stamped her foot. "Good in the sense of… of sex!"

Mark adjusted the collar of his jacket to hide his blush, and the drama queen took advantage of his momentary distraction to yank him inside the community center, which was decked out in its best, somewhat faded Valentines Day decorations. Mark blinked, shocked and appalled at the amount of pink trying to assault his eyeballs.

"Hi!"

An over-enthusiastic, miniskirt-clad woman with platinum blonde hair and a fixed smile greeted the two bohos, handing them nametags.

"Are you two…?" She cocked a perfectly plucked eyebrow, holding up two fingers and wiggling them.

"Are we…?" Maureen laughed. "No! I'm just dropping him off…" She leaned in to pinch Mark's cheek, and he ducked away just in time.

"Have fun, Marky!" the diva giggled, and skipped away before he could protest.

"You're not my mother, Maureen," he muttered.

"Oh, she's your ex, right?" The nametag woman pouted sympathetically.

"Yeah," Mark sighed.

"So your name was…?"

She picked up a pen, grimacing in a way that was evidentially supposed to be inviting.

"Mark," he muttered. "Mark, I'm Mark."

"Mark!" she squeaked, fixing the sticker to his lapel and patting it. "We'll put you at table three. Okay?"

"Okay…"

She sat him down, grinning so much he was sure her face was about to split open.

"Have fun, uh, Matt."

"It's Mark," he told her retreating back.

The filmmaker stared at the tabletop, wondering how Maureen had managed to talk him into this. Or, more accurately, pout and whine at him until he did whatever she wanted…

_It's just like when we were dating,_ he realized with a sinking stomach. _The tango all over again. _

"Uh, ladies and… gentlemen? May I have your attention please?" The nametag woman had acquired a microphone and a sound system from somewhere, and was standing at the front of the room with what Mark supposed was meant to be a welcoming expression on her face. In reality, however, it looked like someone had stapled her eyelids to her forehead.

"Um, welcome, my name's Liz, and I'll be your… your, um, MC for tonight. So, what we've done here is given each… gentleman… a table, which they'll stay at for the whole evening. Each time I ring this bell," she continued, ringing said bell with relish, "you girls will move along one table in a…" She paused, concentrated and made a few subtle finger movements. "Clockwise! In a clockwise direction. Okay?"

With one final, enthusiastic squeak, she rang the bell, and the hall echoed with the sound of dozens of chairs scraping across the floor, and the first awkward hellos.

Here we go. Mark steeled himself, and looked up to meet the eyes of the girl who had just taken a seat opposite him. 

"Hi. I'm Mark."

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_Remember when I said we loved reviews? That hasn't changed, my dears..._


	2. Potential Girlfriend Numero Uno

**(A/N: I do not intend to offend here, people! The point is that she doesn't really know what she's talking about … she's sorta a poser. I have nothing against nature people or Wiccans .. my sister's a Wiccan, and I myself am a Buddhist .. so don't flame, just enjoy!)**

_P.S., (hi, it's Ginger Glinda btw...) this chapter written exclusively by the amazing HAlf - BlOOd PRiiNCESS. She's awesome... Yeah, that's pretty much all I have to say! Enjoy!_

"Mark …" the girl repeated in an almost wondering tone, starting him straight in the eye.

The first thing Mark noticed about this particular woman was her glasses. Her green glasses. Her big, green, bottle-cap glasses that magnified her large, spacey eyes tenfold. The rest of this lady was equally eccentric: a long, patchwork skirt brushing the tops of her beaten-up cowboy boots, a beaded top, clunky wood jewelry stacked around her neck and up her arms, and insane hair that curled, twisted and twined its way to the small of her back. Altogether, the effect was quiet disconcerting.

"Um … hi," Mark stuttered, glancing down at his twisting hands. The girl was still staring, her green glasses only intensifying the feeling of careful scrutiny. Mark cleared his throat, shifting in his chair. The voice inside his head that he had taken to referring as his "Inner Roger" chided him: _Okay, Cohen, pull yourself together. She's just a girl. If you can take on Maureen, you can take on her. _

"So … you are?" he asked, forcing himself to meet her eyes.

"I … have many names," she declared in a surprisingly low voice, "but am most commonly known as Carnelianne."

"Okay … Carenel … Carnelianne." Mark stumbled over her name, feeling hot and uncomfortable under her never-wavering gaze. "What do you do?" he finally asked. _Nice. I'm sure she hasn't heard that one before. Way to make a great impression, Cohen, _Inner Roger rattled at him.

"By the light of the night, I delve into the unknown realms of the human unconscious," she began impressively, "for it had always been my desire to see beyond what our senses can tell us … to read the auroras the envelop us in our everyday lives. During the day, I serve the common man the provisions needed to sustain their spirits throughout the hours." Mark blinked. Then:

"You mean you're a waitress?"

Carnelianne pursed her lips. "Yes." She sighed and leaned forward in her seat. "And you, my dear … Mark? What service to you provide to the human race?"

"Well, I'm a filmmaker." After getting no response, he continued. "I … um … I actually just made a documentary on the homeless, you know, and the bohemian lifestyle and AIDS and stuff."

"Ahh." She made a non-committal noise of recognition, and nodded a few times.

Silence.

All around them, couples were nursing tentative conversations. Some were talking seriously, some lightly, and some were even laughing. Everyone seemed to be getting along okay – except Mark and Carnelianne. _Of course, I'm the only one that can't hold a conversation to save his life, _Mark reflected wryly.

Inner Roger scoffed. _Just forget it, man. I mean, Mark and Carnelianne Cohen? It doesn't even sound good! Besides, she's a total freak … no way would I even be seen in public with her. _

" – do you practice?"

Mark's head snapped back to his partner, who was leaning closer still. "Um … what?"

Carnelianne attempted to suppress a sigh of annoyance, and repeated her question: "Which method of worship do you practice?" Mark cocked his head, trying to process her flowery words.

"You mean … which religion am I?" She paused, allowed herself a small eye-roll, and nodded. "I'm … Jewish."

"Fascinating." The word dripped with sarcasm. Carnelianne drew herself up in her chair. "_I_ … practice a custom-made tribute to Mother Nature, and its volatile yet beautiful components."

"Um … cool?" More silence. Mark glanced toward the front of the room, desperate to see Liz ready to ring her little bell, so he could get away from this odd person. However, she was still seated next to the microphone, admiring her shockingly pink nails as a patron might a Van Gogh painting. With a sigh, Mark turned back to his unfortunate partner.

He didn't even see her coming. All he knew was that, suddenly, her lips were on his, her hand were in his hair, and she was staring straight into his eyes, her green gaze boring into him …

Mark let out a muffled yelp, and shoved her off of him, panting.

"What … the _fuck?_" he gasped, scrambling away as far as his chair would allow.

Carnelianne was flushed, thrilled. Her hair flew around her face as she grasped his hands, staring wide-eyed with excited.

"I knew it," she hissed, pulling him closer with a surprisingly strong grip. "I just _knew_ it!"

"You knew what?" Mark growled, trying to pull away. She yanked him closer, speaking in a low, agitated whisper.

"From the moment I sat with you, I knew that you had an aurora about you … I knew that our stars were matched, that we were meant to be … my inner voice told me that we had connected in a previous life … and now my suspicions are confi –"

Mark had never been so happy to hear the sound of a ringing bell in his entire life. The sound of shy good-bye's were overpower by Liz's enthusiastic: "Time's up! Everyone _rotate!_"

As the next woman approached Mark's table, Carnelianne swept to her feet, looking down her long nose at him imposingly.

"Good-bye, Mark," she sighed. "I sense that one day our paths will meet again." With that, Carnelianne sashayed away, leaving a frazzled and frightened Mark with his next partner.


	3. Never Bore A Boy On The First Date

"Hey," the girl smiled, putting out a hand for Mark to shake.

"H-hey," he stammered, hoping she wouldn't be another Carnellianne.

"That girl seemed like a whack job," his new partner offered by way of sympathy. "I'm Sophie, by the way."

"Mark," Mark replied.

"Mark." Sophie considered this piece of information carefully. "Like Marc Blucas?"

The filmmaker frowned. "Who?"

Sophie giggled. It was the most high-pitched, unnerving sound Mark had heard in quite some time. It sent chills up his spine, and he clenched his fists to stop himself shivering.

"Jesus, Mark, get a hold of yourself," Roger's voice piped up in his head.

Sophie was explaining who Marc Blucas was, but Mark didn't take any of it in. He was staring at her teeth, which were held by bright pink braces. He swore they would have glowed in the dark.

"So what do you do for a living?" Sophie asked brightly, and snapped her gum. It smelt so strongly of strawberry that Mark had to fight to stop his eyes watering.

"I'm, uh… I make films," he said. "You?"

The girl's whole face lit up. "I run a website," she announce, like it was the most important thing this side of winning the Nobel Peace Prize. Her expression begged Mark to ask about it.

"What kinda website?"

Sophie beamed. "It's kind of like a haven for the obsessive _Buffy_ geek," she explained, and launched into a detailed description. "It's pretty much my entire life," she concluded, not seeming to notice that Mark's eyes had glazed over. "That and trying to find out Sarah Michelle Gellar's home address."

"Cool," Mark managed, once again finding himself praying for Liz's goddamn bell to ring.

"Do you know, you kind of remind me of Andrew," Sophie told him thoughtfully. "No offence, or anything."

"Who?"

"Oh, sorry," she giggled. Mark gritted his teeth. "I forgot not everyone watches it, you know?"

"Watches…?"

"_Buffy_," she clarified, like it was obvious. "I mean, it's clearly the greatest piece of television, oh, I don't know, ever, but it totally doesn't get the recognition it deserves, you know? Like, it was nominated for an Emmy. But then- "

She broke off. "Sorry. I get a little carried away sometimes. Tell me about yourelf, Marc."

She somehow managed to pronounce the "c" at the end of his name. It was a rare talent, Mark assumed.

"Well," he began, "I live in a bohemian artist's loft with my friend Roger and occasionally his girlfriend Mimi. We don't have power a lot of the time, because our landlord, who used to live with us til he sold out and married into the Westport Greys, hates us now. I think it has something to do with the fact that Roger, my roommate, is dating the girl that…"

Mark became aware of the fact that Sophie was humming under her breath and inspecting her nails. When he stopped talking, she blinked at him.

"Well, it's nice to offload, isn't it?"

Another thing Mark was becoming rapidly aware of was the fact the Sophie appeared to care only about herself and vampire slayers.

"Oh, Balthazar!" she cursed. "Look at this."

She waved her hand in Mark's face, showing him that she'd stuck letters clipped from a magazine to her clear glitter polish. Before one of the letters had fallen off, they'd spelled "Spike". Or possibly "spoke", Mark considered.

"The Powers That Be don't like me today," Sophie mourned.

"Shame," Mark muttered, reflecting darkly that if Sophie was anything like this around the Powers That Be (_that be what?_ A random neuron interjected), it was no wonder they didn't like her all that much.

"God, Marc, I think I need to make an emergency bathroom trip," she frowned. "Good luck finding the Willow to your Oz!"

With a final strawberry-scented air kiss, she was gone. Liz's bell clanged in Mark's ears, loud and intrusive.

"Thank you, Maureen," Mark muttered, clenching his fists and making a mental note to kill the diva the very next time such an opportunity presented itself.

The chair opposite him scraped back and Mark looked up warily.

"Hi. I'm Mark."


	4. Perfection Personified

"Hey

"Hey."

Mark's eyes widened behind his glasses as he took in the beauty sitting opposite him. Her long, lustrous blonde hair curled around her pretty, heart-shaped face and down to her substantial amount of cleavage that somehow managed to make her look beautiful instead of slutty. The intense, smoldering gaze of her baby blues left him breathless.

"H-h-h-hi …" he choked out, trying to remember to breathe. Unwillingly, he flashed back on his first encounter with Maureen – the similarities were painful.

The girl smiled invitingly, flipping her hair over her shoulder. There was a moment of silence as Mark attempted to form words.

"Um … I'm Mary," the woman interjected in an attempt to be helpful.

"Mary …" Mark repeated wonderingly. Inner Roger was screaming at him: _You idiot! You fucking idiot! Talk to her!!_

"Well, my full name is Mary Olivia Catherine Sewwe," Mary informed him with a polite smile, "but you can call me Mary."

"Okay," Mark replied shakily, then tried to gather himself. "So … what do you do, Mary?"

This set her off. "Well, I work part-time as an owner of a charming café located in a miraculously nice part of Alphabet City, and spend the rest of my time juggling my two loves: writing and reading," she rattled off. "Everyone who reads my stories thinks I'm the next Harper Lee, but for some reason no one has ever picked them up. I'm also a champion equestrian and prize-winning photographer," she randomly added.

"Oh … that's … great?" Mark would be lying if he said he wasn't intimidated but also strangely intrigued by her perfection. But Mark wasn't lying.

"So, what does a cutie like you do for a living?" she smiled, leaning forward.

Mark's brain, already under enormous stress, simply could not process, could not _understand_, what she had said – what she had called him. It echoed around in the empty chambers of his mind – _cutie, cutie, cutie_ …

As Inner Roger gave him a congratulatory punch, Mark couldn't help but distantly muse over the look that would appear on the real Roger's face when he saw his new girlfriend – or even better, the look on _Maureen's_ face.

However, all this imagining of the pain this would cause the people closest to him did have a drawback: he couldn't think, and therefore blurted out the first thing that popped into his head.

"Did you just call me a cutie?" Mark asked loudly. Several different tables gave them a dubious glace before returning to their own conversations. However, Mary seemed unabashed.

"Yep," she giggled slightly, "For some reason, I've always had a thing for the nerdy types – I would always turn down the jocks in high school. They just weren't as … _interesting._"

"Oh." Mark pushed his glasses up his nose, took a deep breath, and tried to sound intelligent. "Well, I'm a filmmaker, and I –"

"Oh, a filmmaker? I love film!" Mary interrupted. "In college, I was offered an internship by Spike Lee, but I turned it down." Mark arched an eyebrow in confusion: _what the fuck?_

"You … turned it down? Why?" Mary lowered her eyes.

"Well … his hostage movies always hit to close to home with me," she explained in a shaking voice. "You see, my –" She paused to take a deep breath. Mark leaned forward, on the edge of his seat.

"My ex-boyfriend refused to believe I broke up with him, and ended up taking me hostage so no one else could have me. Eventually, he went insane from the longing and killed himself right before the police got there," she whispered, tears forming in her eyes. "It was _horrible_," she added in a desolate whisper.

Mark's stomach sank. It made him sick to believe that anyone could treat this beautiful creature like that. "I'm so sorry," he said quietly, reaching out to touch her hand. She smiled bravely and laced her fingers through his.

"It's okay. I try not to let the demons of my past mess with my peppy attitude. Sometimes I just can't help it." Mary leaned back in her seat, smiling sadly. "Being a victim of abuse as a foster child can let you appreciate what you have now."

Mark's eyes widened as he involuntarily squeezed her hand. "Wow."

"Yeah," Mary sighed. "My parents died in a freak car accident when I was two. But I refuse to let that inhibit me." She looked up and gave him a brave smile.

She looked so beautiful and sad at that moment that Mark couldn't really have been blamed for what happened next. With a sudden lurch, he leaned across the table and pressed his lips against hers.

_YES!_ Inner Roger cackled with glee as Mark ran a hand through her blonde hair, loving life, loving himself, loving her …

And then Mary was pushing him away, brushing her hair back as tears formed once more in her huge blue eyes.

"I'm sorry, Mark," she whispered passionately. "I can never be with you. The pain in my life will only be a burden on your way to greatness. You deserve better."

Mark expected to feel loss and pain, but all he felt was agitation. She didn't even know him … how did she know he deserved better? Inner Roger roared with indignation: _what the hell is with this lady?!_

As Mark opened his mouth incredulously, the clanging of Liz's bell filled the room. With a final dramatic sigh, Mary swept up and departed to the next table, leaving Mark in a state of utter confusion with his next partner.


End file.
